utility room. There might be something we can use to patch the canoe. If we can get her floating, we’re riding,” I said, trying to at least match her formidable gumption.
“You’re thinking maybe that last camp we passed? That one in the trees? Might have been sheltered at least a little bit?”
“You’re way ahead of me, as usual,” I said and meant it.
“No, Max,” she said, turning back to find my eyes. “Not ahead. Just right with you.”
This time I did lean down and kiss her lightly, on the mouth.
“OK then,” I said and untied the flashlight from her belt. “I’ll be right back.”
The bunkhouse was completely gone, as if it had been swatted off the deck by a giant hand, only a few iron post anchors left bolted to the flooring where the corners of the building used to be. The utility building was flattened but there were still gaps of space under the collapsed walls, the largest made where an interior wall was still propped up off the deck by the generator. The heavy piece of machinery was bolted to the plank flooring and was close to one of the foundation posts. It had stayed put. I lifted a sheet of wood siding and shoved it aside, then sent a beam of light into the gap and start rooting around. After coming up with busted cans of paint, shattered jars of roofing nails, a completely intact box of “hurricane candles” and a single hammer, I found something useful: a silver roll of three-inch-wide duct tape. No home owner could live without it. My light also caught something chrome and shining on the floor and I was able to reach through a space behind the generator and get a hand on it. With some twisting and yanking and considerable working of angles, I came up with the sheared-off shaft of what was once a Big Bertha driving wood. In memory I recalled a scene of Jeff Snow standing out on this deck, the morning sun just coming up in the east, while he wedged a tee in between the planks and took practice driving old golf balls out into the distance. The environmentalists would have frowned at his depositing dozens of nonbiodegradable orbs of plastic and rubber into the pristine waters. But I had simply smiled at his morning constitutional. The fat head of the golf club was now gone, but the wet leather-wrapped grip and a sharp, wicked metallic point at the end remained. I told myself it might be useful, maybe as a splint for Sherry’s broken leg. But I knew there was something about its resemblance to a weapon that made me take it along with the roll of tape. If I ended up dragging a half-submerged canoe through the Everglades I didn’t want to face a disoriented Wally or the rest of his ilk with just a six-inch fillet knife.
When I got back to Sherry with my meager loot she had already shifted herself on the floor and had gone through the cabinet under the sink.
There she had found a clean dishrag and an intact bottle of isopropyl alcohol.
“Maybe your friend kept it under there for cuts from cleaning fish,” she said. “Whatever, it’s got to help.”
First things first, I used my knife to cut loose the blood- soaked sheet Sherry had used to tie off her wound and then the sweatpants fabric from around her thigh. The gash seemed less than ominous, like a half-moon slice from a pipe the diameter of a baseball bat handle. It was crusted shut with dried blood, but when I pinched the flesh on either side to open it a bit in order to pour in the alcohol, the hole opened and I could see how deep the cut went. Sherry twitched as I sloshed in the disinfectant and when I looked up at her there was a thin bright red fine of blood on her lip where she was biting against the pain.
“Sorry,” I muttered stupidly.
She closed her eyes and bobbed her head, excusing me.
I then lay the clean dish towel over the wound and ripped off long pieces of the sheet and tied the bandage in place.
“We should try to keep your leg straight and immobilized. You don’t know what that bone end is doing
“You’re thinking maybe that last camp we passed? That one in the trees? Might have been sheltered at least a little bit?”
“You’re way ahead of me, as usual,” I said and meant it.
“No, Max,” she said, turning back to find my eyes. “Not ahead. Just right with you.”
This time I did lean down and kiss her lightly, on the mouth.
“OK then,” I said and untied the flashlight from her belt. “I’ll be right back.”
The bunkhouse was completely gone, as if it had been swatted off the deck by a giant hand, only a few iron post anchors left bolted to the flooring where the corners of the building used to be. The utility building was flattened but there were still gaps of space under the collapsed walls, the largest made where an interior wall was still propped up off the deck by the generator. The heavy piece of machinery was bolted to the plank flooring and was close to one of the foundation posts. It had stayed put. I lifted a sheet of wood siding and shoved it aside, then sent a beam of light into the gap and start rooting around. After coming up with busted cans of paint, shattered jars of roofing nails, a completely intact box of “hurricane candles” and a single hammer, I found something useful: a silver roll of three-inch-wide duct tape. No home owner could live without it. My light also caught something chrome and shining on the floor and I was able to reach through a space behind the generator and get a hand on it. With some twisting and yanking and considerable working of angles, I came up with the sheared-off shaft of what was once a Big Bertha driving wood. In memory I recalled a scene of Jeff Snow standing out on this deck, the morning sun just coming up in the east, while he wedged a tee in between the planks and took practice driving old golf balls out into the distance. The environmentalists would have frowned at his depositing dozens of nonbiodegradable orbs of plastic and rubber into the pristine waters. But I had simply smiled at his morning constitutional. The fat head of the golf club was now gone, but the wet leather-wrapped grip and a sharp, wicked metallic point at the end remained. I told myself it might be useful, maybe as a splint for Sherry’s broken leg. But I knew there was something about its resemblance to a weapon that made me take it along with the roll of tape. If I ended up dragging a half-submerged canoe through the Everglades I didn’t want to face a disoriented Wally or the rest of his ilk with just a six-inch fillet knife.
When I got back to Sherry with my meager loot she had already shifted herself on the floor and had gone through the cabinet under the sink.
There she had found a clean dishrag and an intact bottle of isopropyl alcohol.
“Maybe your friend kept it under there for cuts from cleaning fish,” she said. “Whatever, it’s got to help.”
First things first, I used my knife to cut loose the blood- soaked sheet Sherry had used to tie off her wound and then the sweatpants fabric from around her thigh. The gash seemed less than ominous, like a half-moon slice from a pipe the diameter of a baseball bat handle. It was crusted shut with dried blood, but when I pinched the flesh on either side to open it a bit in order to pour in the alcohol, the hole opened and I could see how deep the cut went. Sherry twitched as I sloshed in the disinfectant and when I looked up at her there was a thin bright red fine of blood on her lip where she was biting against the pain.
“Sorry,” I muttered stupidly.
She closed her eyes and bobbed her head, excusing me.
I then lay the clean dish towel over the wound and ripped off long pieces of the sheet and tied the bandage in place.
“We should try to keep your leg straight and immobilized. You don’t know what that bone end is doing
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